


when winter wind stops my breathing

by takesguts



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Established Relationship, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Mental Illness, Mild Gore, Mixed Messages, Sexual Content, Supernatural Elements, Why Did I Write This?, but theres a twist!, dark themes, dont hate me, i dont know what this is, itll be fine, mild symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:19:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takesguts/pseuds/takesguts
Summary: Against the grayscale overcast, Mickey’s skin looks porcelain, nearly translucent aside from the pink tinge on his cheeks from the wind. It’s cold out, the first real autumn day in Philadelphia since the turn of the season and it isn’t particularly nice out. It’ll probably rain later; Ian didn’t check the weather, but he can feel it in the ache of his shoulder. If he told Mickey this, his boyfriend would call bullshit so he keeps the thought to himself even though he’s certain the symptom has never been wrong before. A shift in weather can often times lead to a shift in mood.





	

Against the grayscale overcast, Mickey’s skin looks porcelain, nearly translucent aside from the pink tinge on his cheeks from the wind. It’s cold out, the first real autumn day in Philadelphia since the turn of the season and it isn’t particularly nice out. It’ll probably rain later; Ian didn’t check the weather, but he can feel it in the ache of his shoulder. If he told Mickey this, his boyfriend would call bullshit so he keeps the thought to himself even though he’s certain the symptom has never been wrong before. A shift in weather can often times lead to a shift in mood. 

  
  


This wasn’t even his idea. Though if his siblings could see them they would probably assume it was. On the water the wind is even chillier, whipping sharply against the motion of the river. It’s reflection of the sky is even darker than the clouds, nearly black and the tide rocks the boat they’re on back and for in long, harsh movements. The deep blue of Mickey’s hoodie pulls at the blue of his eyes; a bright splash of color against the toneless backdrop. 

  
  


He’s beautiful, Ian thinks. 

  
  


Ian cut the engine awhile ago, letting them drift along, the tide pulling them further down. Not the smartest idea, probably; Ian doesn’t even know whose boat this is. Mickey had just smiled at his questions that morning, when he said he had something for them to do today. In the back of his mind, it made Ian a little paranoid - Mickey never kept things from him, before. Told him anything and everything in an almost pathetic, helpless sort of way; as if there wasn’t a single thing he would consider even keeping from Ian. It had been endearing, if slightly overwhelming at the time. 

  
  


Now Mickey has his own things, his own friends. Some that Ian doesn’t know, or has ever even met. They haven’t been in the city together long, which is why Ian has refrained from demanding those kinds of things yet, but his traitorous mind poisons him sometimes. 

  
  
  


In the distance, Ian recognizes the Betsy Ross Bridge and figures they haven’t drifted too far yet. Decides to himself he’ll let them get as far as the Burlington Bristol before turning back around, if Mickey is up to it. His boyfriend hasn’t spoken in awhile, is seemingly dozing on the front of the boat with his arms behind his head. Ian checks him out blatantly, eyes the way the soft fabric of his hoodie clings to his torso, the sharp lines of his arms, the curve of his hips. There’s a small sliver of skin peeking out between the waistline of his jeans and where his top has ridden up; he wonders if the skin there is as cold as his face probably is. Ian’s face is cold; he wants to press his hand there, maybe both of them, slip them underneath Mickey’s shirt and warm them up, dig his thumbs into the jut of his pelvic bone.

  
  


Before today, Ian had never driven a boat before. Which means there’s a lot of things he hasn’t done on a boat before. 

  
  


Carefully, Ian crawls across the space in between them. It’s got an engine, but it’s still relatively small, a little dinky looking. Being on the river is giving him some anxiety, but Mickey had been so thrilled about their impromptu date idea, looked so damn proud that Ian kept his fears on the backburner. 

  
  


“Did you wear sunscreen?” Is what he murmurs when he’s close enough to reach out to touch the tops of Mickey’s knees, then his thighs. It’s a stupid thing to say in lieu of his actual intentions, but he had to break the silence somehow, didn’t want to risk spooking his boyfriend with just his touch. 

  
  


Snorting, Mickey doesn’t even bother opening his eyes even as he quirks an eyebrow haughtily, “S’fifty degrees out, Gallagher.”

  
  


“Studies say people get burned more in overcast,” he replies knowingly, sliding his palms along the smaller man’s quads, squeezing at the fleshiest part of them, curling his hands around the back to pinch. 

  
  


“Alright, Bill Nye,” he snarks, but he’s grinning wider at Ian’s wandering hands, squirming in that barely there way that always turns Ian on. 

  
  


“Should’ve fucked you this morning,” Ian growls, leaning over so he’s more on his knees, “you would have been all wet and stretched still; we could have fucked again on this boat.”

  
  


Lazily, Mickey lifts his head and squints his eyes open, “Right here in the open, huh?” 

  
  


Waving a dismissive hand, Ian dips down to bite at Mickey’s hip playfully, shifting his hungry gaze on him while he shoves the hoodie up so he can do it again, harder, against bare skin this time. 

  
  


“Nobody’s around,” he counters, swirling his tongue in steady circles as he moves his mouth down, tracing along the top of his pants, “besides, what would somebody do? Call the cops?” 

  
  


Mickey’s squirming is more obvious now, a restless shifting as his cock starts to harden, and he makes that breathy little sound that Ian absolutely loves. Loves it more when he makes it while he comes because he’s too overwhelmed, too wrecked with pleasure to manage anything outside of the soft, slutty sound. His own cock is fully hard now, and he really does wish he had screwed Mickey when they woke up. 

  
  


“Don’t get too disappointed,” Mickey leers, bouncing his eyebrows while his grin spreads further into something more lewd, “still a few other ways to get your rocks off.” 

  
  


Snickering, Ian finally pops the button of his boyfriend’s jeans open and drags the zipper down. He holds Mickey’s gaze while he does it, bites his lip as a tease and Mickey huffs out a laugh as he drops his head back down with a thunk. 

  
  


“Spoilin’ me, huh?” He teases, lifting his hips to shimmy his pants and underwear down, twitching at the way Ian immediately curls his hand around his cock, giving a slow pull. “Gonna get me off first?”

  
  


“Always get you off first,” Ian reminds him, smirking - and it’s true. At least, almost always true. Some of it’s an ego thing; Ian never likes to half ass anything, or leave a job unfinished. Making his partner’s orgasm falls into that category, definitely. Some of it is just a strictly Mickey thing, though; pride drives him for it, but it being Mickey makes him care more. He loves getting his man off; few things are sexier than the way Mickey Milkovich orgasms. 

  
  


Giving head isn’t a thing Ian does often in their dynamic. Not that he doesn’t like it or anything; everything involving sex and Mickey Ian is pretty much down for. He can admit, however, that he’s always been into his own cock a little more and well, Mickey kind of is into Ian’s cock a little more, too. There isn’t a whole lot of need for Ian to give head when his boyfriend is more than hungry to give it instead. 

  
  


Today he finds himself wanting to surprise Mickey though, like he surprised Ian with this bizarre little trip. So he opens his mouth and sucks him off; slow and steady, guided by the ebb and flow of the water, the rocking of the boat. Above him, Mickey gasps and twitches, flexes his thighs over and over as he strokes Ian’s hair, along the hollow of Ian’s cheeks. 

  
  


“Fuck, Ian,” he breathes, hips twitching, “feels really good, that feels really good.” 

  
  


Humming in response, he grins around Mickey’s cock, tilts his head back further to take more. His gag reflex is subpar compared to Mickey’s, can only take him deep for seconds at a time but it’s enough to make his boyfriend come fairly quickly. Much like how Ian isn’t quite used to giving blowjobs, the brunet is probably less used to receiving them. Dutifully, Ian swallows, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and chin. 

  
  


“Mnn,” he groans lowly, openly staring at the way Mickey looks now; flushed and panting. “Definitely, definitely should have fucked you. Really just want to get my cock in you.”

  
  


“Fear not,” Mickey says,  as he switches their positions, crawling forward and spreading Ian’s legs so that he can kneel in between them. Without hesitation, Ian works his own pants open, pulling his cock out, groaning again at the wet sound Mickey makes with his mouth, and then the way his jaw drops open almost reflexively. 

  
  


“Good boy,” he comments around a harsh exhale, guiding the head of his dick into Mickey’s mouth. He curls his free hand around the back of his boyfriend’s skull, long fingers tightening in dark locks and pushes his head down further. “Ohh, fuck yeah.” He sighs, dropping his head back at the hot, damp press of Mickey’s tongue, “swallow, baby.”

  
  


Mickey doesn’t need to be told twice; obeys the instruction eagerly until his nose is pressed against the base of Ian’s groin, hardly even gagging around the thick cock in his throat. Like Ian had, he bobs his head with the movement of the boat, blinks up at the redhead in a way that looks innocent and questioning, but Ian knows there isn’t anyway the other man doesn’t know what he’s doing. 

  
  


“Your fucking throat,” Ian pants as he tugs at his hair. 

  
  


It takes Ian a bit longer to come; finds himself getting lost in the wet suction of his boyfriend’s mouth, how he blows him so thoroughly that in the moments he pulls back to breathe Ian can feel how soaked his cock is against the cool air. 

  
  


“I wanna take a picture of you, next time,” he says filthily, dick twitching at the idea, and in response Mickey pulls back with an equally as filthy slurp. He starts mouthing and licking at the slit of Ian’s cockhead, like he would make out with Ian’s mouth and Ian swears loudly. As Ian comes, Mickey uses both of his hands to jerk him through it, sliding his cockhead all around his mouth, jaw and tongue, letting him finish all over his face. 

  
  


“Wanna take a picture of me now?” He breathes hotly, still jerking a sticky hand along Ian’s still half hard dick. Almost frantically, Ian fumbles for his phone with shaking hands. 

  
  


It’s exhilarating every time Mickey does something Ian would have never dreamed of even asking him to do before; there isn’t an ounce of shame in his expression as he stares up at Ian while he takes a few photos. Merely flicks his tongue out slowly a couple of times, along his lips, the underside of Ian’s cock. 

  
  


“Jesus,” he murmurs, reaching down to drag his thumb through the mess on his face. Mickey turns his head to fit his mouth around the redhead’s thumb, sucking gently. 

  
  


Sighing in satisfaction, Ian does up his jeans and tips his head back, unable to stop the wild, stupid smile that takes over his face every time they’re together like this. Mickey sometimes teases him for it, says it’s the equivalent of those men that blurt out stupid shit while they jizz but Ian thinks it’s more of a diversion tactic from the way he’s probably also gazing at Mickey dreamily. 

  
  


Opening his eyes, his smile drops. 

  
  


Mickey’s at the other end of the boat again, clutching the back of his head as he curls in on himself, appearing small and wounded. 

  
  


“What the fuck,” he says, casting Ian a hurt look, “what the fuck, Ian.”

  
  


“What,” Ian finds himself saying, blinking slowly. 

  
  


“Why the fuck would you do that?” Mickey’s going on, shrinking further away, and Ian can practically see his hackles raising. On the white surface of the boat behind him, there’s a pool of blood, and when his boyfriend pulls a hand away from the back of his skull, it’s all over his palm. 

  
  


“Do what?” Ian echoes dumbly, hands twitching by his sides; he wants to reach out, but something is telling him not to. 

  
  


“Just some fucking dude I work with,” Mickey is muttering to himself, “un-fucking-believable. You’ve never even met the guy, why the fuck are you so worried about him?”

  
  


“Who?” 

  
  


“Ain’t even fucking gay,” he’s ranting, “he isn’t even fucking gay, Ian. Why do you keep bringing him up? Fucking obsessed.” 

  
  


“Who isn’t gay?”

  
  


Something doesn’t feel right - it’s almost like Ian is on the outside of his body, watching this strange, bewildered version of himself. Mickey’s bleeding pretty badly, enough that the blood is dripping through his fingers and back onto the boat some more, most likely staining it. Ian doesn’t know much about boats, but there’s a lot of other stains on the panels and he figures there’s probably a reason for that. Whoever owns this boat is definitely going to know someone took it now. 

  
  


“Head wounds bleed a lot,” he informs Mickey, taking off his sweater, “here, use this to stop the bleeding. This guy’s gonna be pissed there’s blood all over his boat.”

  
  
  


“Whose fucking fault is that,” Mickey snaps, glaring darkly, and Ian opens his mouth to say he told Mickey not to stand on the boat, but his boyfriend cuts him off, “when’d you get so fuckin’ jealous, huh? Cheated on me for fuckin’ months, before and now you’re all worried about some fuckin’ rando from my work. Some fucking nerve you have.”

  
  


Turning around, Ian makes to start the engine, half listening to the way Mickey’s grumbling behind him. He accepted the sweater and even though there’s goosebumps erupting along Ian’s arms, hardening his nipples, it’s a good sign and means Mickey isn’t too bad. Besides, they’re only at the Taconey Bridge which isn’t too far. It probably isn’t serious, considering all the bitching his boyfriend is doing but they should get the wound cleaned up anyway. 

  
  


When he turns back around to say so, Mickey is gone. There’s a much larger amount of blood all over the front of the boat, pooling on the floor. 

  
  


“Mickey,” he gasps, breath seizing in his lungs, panic instantly rising in his throat, “Mick?”

  
  


Lurching forward, he grabs the edge of the boat, hands slipping in blood as he looks down into the water, “Mick, where are you? Where the fuck are you, this isn’t fucking funny.”

  
  


Something feels wrong, even more wrong than before. Heart pounding wildly, he frantically searches around the perimeter of the boat, reaching down into the water. 

  
  


“Fuck,” he says, quiet and terrified, “fuck, Mickey please.” His eyes scan along the nearest shoreline; it’s not really a beach, but there’s enough ground to stand on and Ian’s barely aware of the way he’s steering the boat toward the land. Adrenaline is guiding his every move and he stumbles blindly off the boat when he manages to get close enough. 

  
  


Phone in hand, he’s dialing 9-1-1, hands shaking violently as he walks down further, still calling Mickey’s name. 

  
  


To the dispatcher, he’s sure he sounds crazy; in between rattling off as many details he can remember to answer her questions in between calling for his boyfriend desperately. 

  
  


“He hit his head,” he repeats, ignoring the woman’s soft encouragements to stay calm, “he hit his head and fell in, I didn’t. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know. I can’t find him.”

  
  


“Sir, I need you to - “

  
  


“Please,” he nearly screams, feeling overwhelmed with panic, “please I need help, I need you to send me help.”

  
  


“Help is on the way, sir,” she says, “now I need you to calm down, Ian. Can you do that for me?”

  
  


There’s a wriggling in the back of his mind that suggests he doesn’t remember telling the woman his name, and he doesn’t, he really doesn’t, but he has to find Mickey. 

  
  


“I need to find Mickey,” he says again, “please somebody fucking help me, I can’t find him.” 

  
  


When the police show up, Ian’s waist deep in the river; it’s damn near freezing, the water. Takes his breath away with every inch it climbs on his skin. 

  
  


Strong hands pull him out of the water, even as he thrashes and pleads. 

  
  


  * \- - - -



  
  


It takes four hours. 

  
  


More emergency units show up, and one of the medical staff gives Ian a xanex to calm him down. He’s resigned to sitting on the back of an ambulance, wrapped in a blanket while a team of strangers is out searching for his boyfriend. He should be out there, he should be helping, but his bones feel like lead, eyelids heavy and drooping. Every time he tries to stand, gentle hands push him back down, assuring him all that’s being done is being done. 

  
  


  * \- - - -



  
  
  


Ian knows they have found him before someone tells him - can tell by the slow buzz of movement of the people around him shifts just ever so slightly to a more precise, urgent movement. 

  
  
  


This time he’s on his feet before anyone can stop him.

  
  


The lead in his skeleton is suddenly weightless as he runs to the water again, chest constricting. The panic from before feels farway and like nothing to what he feels now. Someone is screaming after him, a few hands try to grab at him but he dodges them on autopilot, shoving off their grasps. He can only focus on the three men he can see as he gets closer, pulling a body out of the river. 

  
  


“Mickey,” he says, and he must be screaming because all of the people on the shoreline turn to look at him. 

  
  


“Somebody grab him,” one of them is yelling and Ian shoves at the people running toward him. 

  
  


He makes it close enough to see. He wishes he hadn’t.

  
  
  


Mickey is dead, body limp and lifeless against the tarp the men set him down on. They’re not even checking for a pulse and at the same time two arms wrap around his torso, Ian is crumbling to his knees. 

  
  


“That’s my man,” Ian is crying, wailing, sobbing; the sounds he’s making are scraping the back of his throat. “That’s my man, my Mickey. My Mickey, oh god, oh god.”

  
  
  


Mickey’s skin is blue like his hoodie, lips purple and he’s dead. 

  
  


“Oh god,” he moans again, whole body trembling, “oh my god.”

  
  


The person behind him is attempting to lift him up, pull him back. 

  
  


A fresh, wrenching sob forces it’s way out of him again and he jerks his elbow back to jab the person holding onto him. It works briefly; he’s able to crawl a few spaces closer. He needs to be - he needs to see for himself, has to see for himself. Maybe it’s not Mickey, maybe it just looks like - maybe. 

  
  


“Please,” he’s begging helplessly, distraught, “please don’t be my baby, please don’t be my Mickey, please, please, please.”

  
  


It’s worse, even closer; almost worse enough that Ian nearly convinces him it’s not his boyfriend, the love of his fucking life. That it’s someone else, some poor unfortunate someone who wound up there and it’s not Mickey. 

  
  


The medics are pulling back Mickey’s hoodie, and now there’s two people yanking Ian’s own body back again. 

  
  


Underneath the sweatshirt, Mickey’s tshirt is torn open from the neckline down to his stomach. 

  
  
  


What Ian sees next has him gagging violently, his face turning away as he vomits all over himself and the officer that’s now holding him. 

  
  


The left side of Mickey’s chest is seemingly caved in- a horrid, bloody mess of flesh and veins. His sternum is cracked, the bone jutting out unnaturally like someone twisted it up so you could see inside. 

  
  


Where his heart should be there is merely an empty, gaping cavity. 

  
  
  


  * \- - - - 



  
  


Ian wakes up screaming. 

  
  


The door to his bedroom is being flung open and he’s helpless to stop the terrible, gut churning sound he’s still making. There’s hands on his wrists, trying to peel back his hands but he shakes his head, crying loudly into his palms. His whole face feels wet with tears, body soaked with sweat that’s beaded all over his skin. 

  
  


“Ian, Ian,” a voice is murmuring, low and insistent, “shh, Ian, it’s okay, it’s okay.” 

  
  
  


Another sob has him trembling, but it’s quieter now, something in him responding instinctively to the hands stroking through his damp hair, the mouth pressing against his forehead. 

  
  


“You’re okay,” they say, “you’re alright, it was just a bad dream.”

  
  


Ian’s not sure how long they sit there, only knows that he cries and cries until it physically feels like he can’t anymore. Until he feels like he’s going to throw up, throat hot and sore, nose snotty. 

  
  


By the time he’s mostly finished, the hands in his hair have moved to his back and he finds himself with his face pressed into a soft, heather grey tshirt. His eyes feel swollen and it takes a moment for his vision to focus through the blur of tears clinging to his eyelashes. There are wet spots on the shirt, from his crying and running nose, he’s sure. 

  
  


“You’re fine, you’re just fine.”

  
  


“Mickey,” Ian gasps quietly, finally able to recognize his boyfriend’s presence, “oh, Mickey.” Without warning he’s pulling the smaller man into his lap, clinging to him desperately. He’s pressing quick, needy kisses all over his boyfriend’s face - mouth, nose, forehead - over and over and over. Tears are starting to slip down his cheeks again. 

  
  


“I’m sorry,” Mickey is murmuring in return, clinging just as hard, strong arms squeezing around Ian’s shoulders, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you sleep alone after we fought - I knew. I know that shit fucks with you and I shouldn’t have.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, “I’m so sorry.” 

  
  


Vaguely, Ian can recall what he’s talking about - the fight from earlier in the evening. Mickey came home later then he was supposed to, stayed out with some coworkers after his shift. With Noah. Noah, who has been texting Mickey at all hours of the night, who has kept Ian awake for days with paranoia. 

  
  


Any anger he felt toward the situation earlier feels lost in the sea of emotion he’s swimming through right now in his mind. In his hold, Mickey is warm and solid and breathing. He smells clean, and a little sweet - like the vanilla bodywash one of the girl’s from Ian’s office gave them as a joke. Ian’s going to have a hard time letting him go any time soon. 

  
  


“You wanna talk about it?” Mickey ventures, squeezing his arms again. 

  
  


“No,” he croaks, sniffing loudly and shaking his head resolutely, “no,” he repeats, choking a little around the word. 

  
  
  


“Okay,” Mickey soothes, as if he can tell Ian is getting worked up again, “okay. Wanna try laying back down?”

  
  


This time, Ian nods carefully, but doesn’t remove his arms from around his boyfriend, making it very clear he isn’t going anywhere. It makes for an awkward movement to get them both into a laying position but in the one second Mickey had attempted to let go to arrange them more comfortably, Ian had whimpered. 

  
  


“I can’t,” he said pathetically, offering no other explanation, “you can’t.” 

  
  
Softly, Mickey nods and they make it work until they’re both laying on their sides, facing each other but pressed as close as possible so that every inch of their bodies are touching. Mickey’s nudging his nose along Ian’s, kissing the corner of his mouth surely and affectionately. Still shivering, Ian tilts his face just slightly, slotting their mouths together to kiss him properly as he reaches a hand up to settle over Mickey’s chest, and feels his heartbeat steady and strong. 

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SO SORRY. BUT YOU GUYS MADE IT. AND IT WAS OKAY, RIGHT?
> 
>  
> 
> This is actually based off of a nightmare I had two days ago. The feeling I woke up with was pretty horrid and dreary and stayed with me the entire day, so I figured writing it out may help. A lot of this is symbolism, maybe? Well, there's stuff up for interpretation at the very least. Could be read as an AU, could be read as not an AU. I'd love to hear anyones thoughts!
> 
>  
> 
> But I love u guys and I'm sorry and I would never leave you all unhappy. 
> 
>  
> 
> Namaste!


End file.
